


Personal enjoyment

by RoughTweedAction (Donya)



Series: Holmescest smutty fiku-miku [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Mycroft's body appreciation, No Angst, Post-Coital, Sexual Fantasy, Sibling Incest, Smoking, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-09-30 10:38:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10161311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donya/pseuds/RoughTweedAction
Summary: Sherlock finds it hard to leave Mycroft's bed.





	

Sherlock had always loved those quiet, endless moments after sex, the post-coital bliss and the unique sense of contentment and tranquillity. His breathing and heart rate returned to normal, the shivers and involuntary twitching stopped. His limbs still felt too weak to support him, but if forced, he could gather himself up and return to his own bed. Lingering in Mycroft's was, however, immeasurably more enjoyable.

He was lying on his front, arms folded on the pillow and supporting his left cheek. With his eyes closed, he recalled what exhausted him so delightfully. The memory of being taken with such ferocity that he was still aching was fresh and intense enough to make him moan quietly. He wanted to touch his neck, check if Mycroft had left noticeable marks, then palm his sides in search of blossoming bruises, but that would require moving. In his current state, he preferred to lie still and contemplate his debauchery.

Mycroft was on the other side of the bed. The distance between them was not an expression of disagreement or resentment. Mycroft Holmes, codename Antarctica, affectionately nicknamed Iceman, was a furnace. The irony never ceased to amuse Sherlock. Cuddling after sex was endurable only on the coldest winter nights. In summer, even lying next to him might result in a heat stroke.

Sherlock remembered their first time, to his dismay the bedsheets were soaked with all sorts of fluids and their bodies were just as filthy and sticky. Strangely enough, Mycroft was not repulsed by that. Sherlock expected to be pushed off the bed before the mattress was stained as well and forced to clean up. Little did he know that his obsessed with keeping things neat and clean brother secretly liked the sex-related mess. The tiniest specks of dirt on his impeccable suits were unacceptable, but tangled sheets stained with his own release and Sherlock's saliva were perfectly fine. Mycroft claimed he wouldn't be able to enjoy crisp clean sheets without the comparison to the damp, ruined bedding. Similarly, he found showering after sex more pleasant than washing away non-sinful filth.

Sherlock's position allowed him to slightly cool down and enjoy the view. Mycroft was entirely exposed, comfortably basking in his own warmth. That was a sight to behold, a nude Mycroft, layers of protection peeled off. There was no time to appreciate it earlier, Sherlock remembered the frenzied urgency with which he tugged at Mycroft's tie and fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat. Now that the tension no longer distracted him, he could really take his time and stare as much as he pleased.

The seemingly mocking remarks about weight gain were nothing but a clever smoke screen. Sherlock concealed not only his incestuous desires but also his hopeless fascination with Mycroft's body. He was able of looking at him objectively, could see his flaws, the undeniable proof how rarely he exercised and how much he loved sweets and takeaways. Not many would consider him good-looking, he seemed to be the kind of middle-aged man who had to pay for the company and untruthful compliments. And yet Sherlock was giddy with excitement whenever they were alone and Mycroft began the long process of undressing. Even the passing time didn't change that, in his eyes, Mycroft was ageing like fine wine.

He loved his shoulders and forearms sprinkled with freckles. When time permitted, Sherlock would use his tongue to trace patterns on the skin, moving from one coppery spot to another. His arms, unreasonably strong, considering his own workout was carrying his umbrella. His broad back, the vast canvas covered with fading scratches of Sherlock's nails. His soft, rounded stomach, Mycroft's biggest insecurity. He had struggled to achieve the unrealistic goal of a rock hard washboard, unaware how perfect his flabby belly was. And obviously, his fleshy bottom, that was something to grab onto and knead with his fingers or stroke lightly but mostly squeeze vigorously until his hand was smacked away. Sherlock often cupped one shapely cheek with both hands, just for the fun of it. Mycroft's entire body felt amazing against his, a full-body embrace was both soothing and arousing. Sherlock would stroke Mycroft's sides tenderly, only to take a fold of flesh between his fingers and pinch it.

Sherlock remembered the comfort of snuggling up next to his big brother when they were children and the sense of safety when he would wrap his thin arm around Mycroft;'s massive thigh when he was scared. Such things remained unchanged and while Mycroft was no longer overweight, Sherlock felt completely safe nestled between his brother's thighs. On occasion, Sherlock would lay his head on his belly. Mycroft didn't take offence, he could imagine the comfy feeling of the literal body pillow. His hand would then stroke Sherlock's hair tenderly, the closest they were to declarations of commitment. More often, Sherlock would crawl between Mycroft's legs and lean down to let his mouth and tongue caress the soft skin of his brother's midsection. Openly affectionate kisses placed from left to right, according to Mycroft's specific wishes, around his navel, then up, on his chest. That kind of foreplay ensured particularly thrilling sex.

Mycroft would not admit it but he achieved body confidence through such lazy late night sessions with Sherlock. At the beginning, he would retreat under the covers, feeling uneasy and self-aware. It took some time but eventually, Sherlock's appreciative, hungry gaze convinced him not to hide away. The knowledge that only Sherlock saw him in such a compromising position was exciting and fueled his possessiveness.

Now Mycroft was comfortable enough in Sherlock's presence that he didn't feel awkward about his post-shagging routine. His nightstand was filled with everything they needed to avoid the horror of getting up. Bottles of water, tubes of lubricant and handcuffs and plenty of energy bars, also known as guilt-free sweet snacks. Sherlock declined the offering, he preferred to watch. After a long deliberation, Mycroft picked a banana and chocolate bar. He chewed it slowly, loving the taste, eyes closed in pleasure. Sherlock liked watching him eat, against better judgment. Mycroft's sweet tooth was enjoyable or both of them, Mycroft was flattered by the lustful glances and Sherlock couldn't wait for chocolate-flavoured kisses.

Soon, Mycroft finished the well-deserved treat and eyed the empty wrapper longingly. He wanted more but also knew how easily things could spiral out of control. Instead, he reached for a packet of cigarettes. Watching him smoke had always been so arousing. The filtered tip between Mycroft's lips, his mouth opened to exhale the smoke, pleased sighs and the ashtray conveniently placed on his belly. Sherlock lost his right to join him when he nearly burnt the bed. The combination of the post-orgasmic haze and the nicotine rush was too much for Sherlock, he dropped the cigarette onto the pillow and even when he noticed, he was too high to care. Mycroft as furious. Only after nearly two decades did he begin to share his cigarette with Sherlock, but never let him hold it. Smoking could not be more erotic, Sherlock thought, as his lips brushed against Mycroft's fingers while taking a greedily deep drag. Or it could, he added, when Mycroft kissed him and sucked the smoke out of his lungs.

They sometimes talked at that stage, brotherly conversations about the current cases and Sherlock's recklessness, and whether or not his growing circle of friends enhanced or diminished his extraordinary abilities. From time to time, Sherlock would fall asleep, confident he was in the safest place possible. There were also times when he had to leave. Mycroft would then help him get dressed. His tying Sherlock's shoelaces reminded Sherlock of the simpler times, of his childish belief that Mycroft could fix everything. 

The most memorable were the nights when they would stay awake long enough to make the most of their time together. Sherlock had had mixed feelings about that. Even the adolescent insatiability wasn't strong enough to test how soon he was ready to receive Mycroft again. Until, due to their busy schedules, they couldn't arrange private meetings as frequently as they wanted. Once they managed to sneak out of their lives, it was wise to give and take as much as possible. For Sherlock's benefit and his entertainment, Mycroft would choose a position that allowed gentle, subtle movements instead of deep thrusting. The initial sensation of being filled again was, as Sherlock predicted, not overly pleasant. He felt sore and oversensitive, the wet sounds he couldn't ignore reminded him of what was used as the lubricant. Mycroft never failed to inform him how wonderful he felt, opened-up and pliant. Sherlock felt that way, exposed, unable to keep anything from Mycroft, vulnerable in the most pleasurable way.

Re-energised and in the mood, Mycroft initiated the second round. Aware of being closely watched, he reached down, touched himself, firmly enough to reignite the fire. Sherlock tilted his head to see it better, The tip, already glistening with droplets of pre-ejaculate, the soft curve of hardening length. Sherlock licked his lips, remembering how it felt sliding into his mouth earlier that night, the hot, heavy weight on his tongue, the taste he never thought he would tolerate but ended up loving, the intoxicating feeling of deepthroating. The thought alone made him salivate.

Mycroft put the ashtray away and swiftly moved closer to Sherlock, lay on top of him. Sherlock's moan sounded louder than he intended, though not exaggerated. Everything about that position was hot. The solid bulk pressing him into the mattress, Mycroft's body covering him entirely, the surrender of control and the thrill of rear entry. Sherlock smiled, anticipating Mycroft's usual dirty musings about the possibilities his stretched hole presented. Sherlock had heard such detailed description of Mycroft's fisting fantasy that it felt like they had done it already. Mycroft seemed content with just talking about it and Sherlock didn't mind listening to such obscenities. He was certain Mycroft wouldn't hurt him and felt ready to try it. He would love the perversion of it and the resulting dirty thoughts about his brother shaking hands with ambassadors, the Queen and, yes, John.

'You would love it, wouldn't you?' Mycroft whispered in his ear as while rubbing against his arse teasingly. 'You would be so full.'

'Yes, yes,' Sherlock panted impatiently. He wished he could shift and impale himself on Mycroft's shaft, but knew from experience how futile such attempts were. 

'In my office,' Mycroft continued, raising up only enough to sink into Sherlock again. 'Bent over my desk.'

That kind of meetings in Mycroft's creepy office meant bruises on Sherlock's thighs and a restraining hand clamped over his mouth. He had nothing against forced silence, yet the loudly expressed enthusiasm permitted in Mycroft's house was far more appealing. His whines and groans didn't alarm anyone, only encouraged Mycroft to keep going. With one hand, he lifted Sherlock's hips a bit and nudged his thighs apart, then draped himself over Sherlock's back. He took hold of his wrists and pinned them down above his head.

The tantalisingly slow grind was easy to bear and a few heartbeats later, enjoy. Sherlock forgot how overstimulated he was moments ago, the discomfort replaced with sparks of pleasure. His body was heating up again, the crimson flush across his chest and on his face and the warmth between his buttocks. Despite the gentle pace and his passiveness, he was sweating again and his mouth was dry from moaning. Trapped underneath his brother, he had neither the will nor the strength to crawl away. Words that were impossible to utter when they were both fully dressed, now escaped Sherlock's mouth almost without his knowledge. Mycroft glided in and out of him, savouring all of the sensations and listening intently to Sherlock's broken voice pleading him not to stop. 

'Do you remember that time in the shed?' Mycroft smiled against his cheek. 'When father nearly caught us?' 

That was amusing now, at the time Mycroft was on the verge of a heart attack. Overcome with desire, he hadn't heard the approaching footsteps. The door he had been leaning against with his trousers around his ankles suddenly moved, pushed harder and harder by their confused father. Mycroft had jerked forward, unintentionally pushing deeper into Sherlock's throat. Sherlock had shoved him away to block the door, screaming at the top of his lungs, 'Experiment in progress! Don't come in!' 

'We should repeat it, without the interruption, though. It's Mummy's birthday on Saturday, I expect you'll be there.'

'You're just saying that to make me come without complaining,' Sherlock wanted to sound cross but didn't have it in him at the moment.

Mycroft chuckled and pressed in deeper. 'Excellent deduction, little brother. Don't be late, mind your manners and I will reward you.'

Sherlock had no choice, then. Whenever Mycroft was available, he would not think twice, even if he was frustrated with his constant meddling, unsolicited advice and expectation that Sherlock would drop everything to see him. 

'Fine.'

'Good boy,' Mycroft praised sincerely. He leant down to rub his tongue against Sherlock's lips. The reaction was immediate and predictable. Sherlock let him in and kissed desperately to stop Mycroft from pulling away.

He was immersed in pleasure, engulfed in Mycroft's presence. Mycroft was inside him and all around him, keeping him safe and protecting him from the world. Just the two of them in their private universe, unperturbed by social norms. Sherlock was truly mystified by the lack of accusations made by the less oblivious people. No one ever thought how the shared isolation affected the two brothers, no one noticed furtive glances, secret smiles, fleeting touches. Not even John questioned Mycroft's obsessive interest in Sherlock's life or Sherlock's late night visits at his brother's house. Even the conspiracy theorist Anderson harboured only a silly suspicion that behind the closed doors, the Holmes brothers plotted to take over the world.

A feeling of intense pleasure rose up in Sherlock, sooner than he wanted. There was no chance of him outlasting Mycroft, no matter how hard he tried. Mycroft tormented him with delicate kisses to his nape, alternated with the graze of his teeth against the sensitive skin, murmured filthy encouragements and carefully angled, shallow thrusts. His grip on Sherlock's wrists tightened in response to his squirming. The helpless whines, high-pitched and loud, sounded foreign, Sherlock hardly believed it was his voice and his incoherent begging. Or his scream when he couldn't control his body any longer and convulsed under Mycroft.

The languorous numbness rendered him powerless as Mycroft's sought his own pleasure. Just when it all became unbearable and Sherlock felt he couldn't take another second of it, Mycroft came, sinking his teeth into his shoulder. He rolled off him and Sherlock could breathe in deeply again and that was all he did. Any other physical activity was simply impossible.

The jolt back to reality was always hard. On his way to Baker Street, Sherlock put on the mask of the detached, untouched brilliant detective who hated his brother. It was even more challenging for Mycroft, he had to assume the role of the distant, sell-restrained Iceman who didn't mind how close Sherlock and John were.

Only four days to Saturday.

**Author's Note:**

> Mycroft Holmes, amrite? What a hot piece of cake.


End file.
